This short fanfic have came up to my mind lately, an AU where puppets and humans lives together in the medieval times.
Thanks to the amazing creator of the visual novel @thepipiuw Kingdom of Marionettes, and their amazing characters like Jestyn, Knighter, Wizzy and the lore so far <3
Hope you all enjoy this, cuz it’s been a while I haven’t written a fanfic since 2015! And I got helped by a friend of mine to polish my writing, but I made it as neutral as possible for any reader and any gender, enjoy it!
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You were once the heartbeat of your kingdom. Everyone knew you as "[Y/N], The Cheerful Butterfly," a royal who found just as much joy in the company of a commoner as a noble. Whether you were playing pranks on your knights in the garden or listening to the townspeople, your kindness was the light of the realm. You were social, open, and blissfully unaware of the cracks beginning to form in your family’s legacy.
Everything shattered when your father’s desperate deal—a ruinous deal with a neighboring power—drained your family’s heritage dry. In the silence that followed your family’s disgrace, eyes from across the borders began to watch. Among them was Crownus, the King of the Marionettes. He had watched you from afar during a royal gala, captivated by your vibrant blue attire—the very symbol of your lineage—and he decided then that you would be his prize to collect
The news of a contractual marriage felt like a death sentence. You knew little of the Kingdom of Marionettes, save for the rumors: a land of clockwork beings and porcelain skin, where humans and puppets lived in the shadow of puppet rulers. You stopped smiling. You stopped being "The Cheerful Butterfly."
A week later, you arrived at the borders of his domain. The sight was gut-wrenching. While the common citizens—both human and puppet alike—begged for a miracle to end their desperate drought, the nobility paraded through the streets in grotesque displays of wealth.
Inside the throne room, Crownus sat perched upon his seat, a tower of wooden joints, porcelain and age-worn paint. He looked you up and down with an unsettling, lingering gaze. He was far too old for you, and his presence made your skin crawl.
"You're pretty and small," he chuckled, a dark, rattling sound. "How cute... even if you are only human. I hope you don't bore me."
"Your Highness, it is a pleasure," you lied, forcing a smile while your heart felt hollowed out.
He snapped his fingers, and servants rushed to place a chair beside his throne. "Sit. Perhaps you should start getting used to your role, little bird."
You took your seat, feeling dwarfed by his cold, stiff presence. The hall was silent, save for the rhythmic click-clack of gears and the distant wind outside.
Crownus, bored already, slammed his hand against his armrest. "Bring my jester! My fiancé needs entertainment after such a long journey!"
From the shadows, he emerged.
Jestyn was a tall figure. His attire was a sharp, geometric split of white, black, and red, mirroring the kingdom’s own colors. He wore a jester’s hat adorned with a small, mocking crown—a detail that made you wonder if he was laughing at the very royalty he served or any other kingdom. But it was his face that stole your breath: one side was perfectly masked in white porcelain , while the other was a horrific, jagged crack of exposed, revealing tooth grin.
"Good evening, Your Majesty!" Jestyn bowed with a dramatic, fluid elegance that felt almost liquid compared to the King’s rigidity.
"Jestyn, my favorite toy," Crownus grunted. "Meet [Y/N]. They have come a long way. Show them your talent."
Jestyn’s eyes—bright, artificial, and far too knowing—locked onto yours. Despite the terror of his cracked face, something within you stuttered. He began to juggle, his hands moving with an impossible, blurred speed. A coin vanished into thin air, reappearing in a burst of theatrical movement. When he finally approached you, the air seemed to thin. Your breath hitched, and a hot blush crept up your neck as he leaned close, his movements fluid and soft, finally producing the coin from behind your right ear.
He was terrifying. He was a marionette. And yet, for the first time in weeks, your heart was beating fast for a reason other than fear.
That was the moment you finally chuckled, the sound foreign and fragile in a kingdom that prized cold, robotic perfection. From that moment, Jestyn became a lifeline; he was the only one who made your existence in this gilded cage feel easier, or at least, significantly less painful.
The first night
Then came the first night of the week before the wedding day. You were preparing for sleep, your mind racing, when a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against your bedroom door. You froze, clutching your robe tighter. You made your way to the heavy oak entrance and pulled it open, but the corridor was empty—nothing but the flicker of dying torches and shifting shadows.
"Who’s there?" you whispered into the gloom, feeling foolish.
You didn't get an answer. Just as you began to close the door, a sudden, sharp gasp escaped your lips as he materialized from the darkness.
"Boo!"
He let out a dry, rattling laugh, scaring you half to death. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your throat tightened to scream, but before a sound could escape, his hand—cool and firm—clamped gently over your mouth. With his other hand, he pressed a long, slender finger to his lips, a silent command for you to stay quiet.
You stared up at him, your breath hitching, and nodded frantically in the dark. He held you there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, before he finally let go, leaving you trembling in the sudden, heavy silence of your room.
The door clicked shut, the sound final and absolute in the quiet of your room. Jestyn stood before you, his motley attire muted by the moonlight, somehow softer than it was in the harsh light of the throne room.
"You look like you're preparing for a funeral rather than a wedding," he murmured, his voice a gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space.
You backed away, leaning against the vanity, your hands trembling. "Because I am. You saw him, Jestyn. You saw how he looks at me. Like I'm just another piece of wood to be polished or a toy to be discarded once the novelty wears off."
You took a jagged breath, the truth pouring out of you, raw and unfiltered. "I'm terrified. Not just of him, but of what happens to my people if I become their ruler. Look at this place—the drought, the suffering, the way the nobles prance around while the citizens wither. He’s leading this kingdom to ruin, and he’s dragging me down with him."
Jestyn stepped closer, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering near your cheek before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "You aren't blind, then. Most royals are so busy admiring their own reflection they don't notice the foundation is rotting."
"It’s not just the rot," you whispered, looking into his mismatched eyes. "It’s the silence. Nobody speaks. Nobody protests. They all move like... well, like marionettes. I feel like I'm screaming inside, and no one hears me."
Jestyn’s grin faltered, the performative mask slipping to reveal something colder and far more dangerous beneath. "Crownus wants a crown, not a partner. He wants to own the spirit of a kingdom that refuses to bow to him, and he thinks that by binding you to him, he’s finally captured the one thing he couldn't carve out of wood."
He looked toward the door, his expression hardening. "He thinks he's the master of the strings. He forgets that strings can be cut."
A shiver raced down your spine—not of fear, but of a chilling realization. You looked at him, searching for the jester beneath his words. "Why are you telling me this?"
He leaned in, his face inches from yours. "Because you are the first thing in this tomb that has ever made me want to stop playing the fool. You fear him because you have a heart, [Y/N]. And in this kingdom, that is your greatest weakness—but also," he paused, his gaze drifting to your hands, "the only thing that can truly break him."
The atmosphere in the room felt heavy, charged with the dangerous energy of the secret you now shared. The flicker of the candles seemed to highlight Jestyn’s face.
"You should rest now," he whispered, his voice losing its playful edge. He stepped back toward the window, his movements as silent as a shadow. "If the King’s guards find me here, even my role as the 'royal entertainment' won't save me. Or you."
You reached out, your fingers brushing the cool fabric of his sleeve. "Wait! Will I see you again?"
Jestyn tilted his head, his bells barely making a sound. "I am always where the shadows are, [Y/N]. Look for me in the garden. When the moon is at its highest, the statues don't watch." He leaned in, pressing a fleeting, cold kiss to your knuckles—a gesture that felt like a secret pact.
With that, he slipped through the window, disappearing into the dark as if he were nothing more than a trick of your own exhausted mind.
A Week of Stolen Shadows
The days that followed were a grueling performance. You walked the halls like a ghost, eyes downcast, playing the part of the submissive fiancé. But in the quiet hours, you lived for the secrets. You found your way to the neglected parts of the palace gardens, where the overgrowth hid you from the prying eyes of the court.
There, your chemistry with Jestyn deepened. It wasn't just a shared rebellion anymore; it was an unspoken tether. You learned the nuances of his humor, the way he would perform small, magical wonders—like turning a dead rosebud into a velvet-soft butterfly—just to see your genuine, unforced smile. You felt your walls coming down, replacing fear with a fierce, growing affection for the one soul who refused to treat you like an object.
You even began to navigate the social minefield of the palace with newfound resilience. When you encountered Knighter, one of the King’s most formidable marionette guards, you no longer shrunk away from his icy, disdainful glare. You met his gaze with a cool, steady confidence that actually startled him, causing his mechanical joints to click in hesitation as he realized his intimidation no longer worked.
You even forged an unlikely alliance with Wizzy, the kingdom’s reclusive wizard. You found Wizzy in the restricted archives, and while they were initially guarded, the desperation in your voice moved them. You didn't want to be a pawn in Crownus’s dynastic game, and you certainly didn't want the irreversible tie of a child to a monster.
"I need a way to ensure our... marital 'duties' remain purely performative," you confessed, your voice steady. "I need to ensure no heir is ever conceived."
Wizzy, observing you with eyes that seemed to see through your very soul, nodded slowly. They offered you an alchemical draught, a silent, bitter liquid that would render you immune to the biological trappings of the King’s desires. It was a secret you tucked away, a quiet victory in a war you were fighting from the inside. With every secret kept and every hidden meeting with Jestyn, the "Cheerful Butterfly" wasn't just surviving—you were becoming something sharper, stronger, and entirely on your own.
The Crimson Vow: A Kingdom of Broken Strings
The day of the wedding was a funeral in disguise. The ceremony was precise, mechanical, and utterly devoid of warmth. You were now the royal consort of a kingdom that felt like a tomb.
The "honeymoon" was a final sentence. The maids, their expressions as vacant as dolls, guided you toward the royal chambers. When you reached the threshold, the lead maid pushed the heavy doors open, curtsying as she stepped aside for you to enter first.
She stepped inside to light the candles, but the breath left her lungs in a sharp, guttural shriek. Then, a chorus of screams erupted from the servants behind you.
You pushed past them, the cold air of the room biting at your skin. You stood paralyzed, eyes fixed on the bed.
Crownus was there, but he was no longer a king. He was a ruin. He was sprawled across the massive bed, his regal attire stained, his posture broken. Where his crown had sat, there was only a jagged, horrific void. The King was headless.
The room descended into a symphony of chaos—the piercing shrieks of the maids, the frantic shouting of the guards, Knighter’s loud stern voice sounding , and the cold, metallic scent of iron filling the air. You stood paralyzed, your heart hammering against your ribs, eyes fixed on the bed where Crownus lay, his reign silenced forever.
The gruesome reality hit you like a physical blow. You felt the heavy, silken folds of your honeymoon attire—a sheer, delicate robe that had been meant to signify your submission to the King—clinging to your skin, suddenly feeling like a funeral shroud. The walls of the room seemed to tilt and spin, the candlelight blurring into streaks of gold and blood. A suffocating wave of panic washed over you; the sheer weight of your new, precarious existence threatened to pull you under. You couldn't breathe.
Just as your knees threatened to give way, a cool, familiar breeze cut through the heat of the room. One hand—cool, firm, and grounding—slid over your eyes, shielding you from the nightmare.
"Shh," a voice hummed, vibrating against your ear, so close it felt like a secret. "Don't look, Your Majesty. This was never meant for your eyes."
Jestyn acted with terrifying precision. He didn't lead you toward the crowd; instead, he steered you backward, pulling you by holding your waist, through a hidden service passage tucked behind the royal tapestry. The sounds of the chaos—the screams and the metal of armor—faded into a dull, distant hum as he ushered you into a secluded, shadowed hallway, far from the prying eyes of the court.
Only when you were safely hidden in the dim corridor did he uncover your eyes. The dam broke.
You collapsed into his arms, sobbing violently. It wasn't grief—you felt nothing but a cold, hollow revulsion for the man on the bed—but the agonizing, dizzying relief of a prisoner who had just seen the cage door blown open. You cried one night before the wedding , for the secret, bitter draught Wizzy had pressed into your hand to ensure you would never be bound by an heir, and for the suffocating, silent mask you had worn for days, terrified of the honeymoon night that would never come to pass.
Jestyn held you tighter, his wooden form rigid but his movements hauntingly gentle. He didn't pull away. He simply stood there, shielding you from the rest of the world, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. He knew you knew. The way he had moved, the timing, the lack of hesitation—it was all written in the stillness of his posture.
"You knew," you choked out between ragged breaths, gripping the lapels of his attire, your thin gown fluttering against his chest. "You did this."
Jestyn didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned in, his cracked grin widening in the dark. He traced the line of your jaw with terrifying tenderness. "I told you the strings could be cut. And I would dismantle this entire kingdom, piece by piece, if it meant I could see you smile like this."
You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears of relief and sheer, adrenaline-fueled panic. When he leaned in, his lips were cold—a sensation that shouldn't have been comforting, yet it felt like the only thing keeping you from shattering. You didn't just accept the kiss; you met it with a desperate, frantic hunger, pulling him closer as if he were your only anchor in the wreckage.
It was a kiss of silent complicity. You weren't asking if this was right; you were acknowledging that the crown was now yours. As you broke apart, breathless and trembling, Jestyn’s grin remained, but it was warmer, softer—a look of absolute, terrifying devotion.
"The kingdom screams for its new ruler," he murmured, his breath cool against your flushed skin. "And you, my love, are finally home."
You looked back toward the dark hallway to ensure no one’s is watching, then back at him—your protector, your executioner, and now, your inseparable partner.
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Part 2 is now available!
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · And I am the hand that holds your strings… [Jestyn x Reader] [+18] · Jestyn x Reader
[ DNI: UNDER 18 ]
This story contain
How do you.. wear headphones? Or are earbuds an option?
I have these, actually. Custom made for my ears! It was difficult to find comfortable headphones, so... I decided to go with the custom-made option, haha.
I drew my idea and then had them made. Please ignore the small Ichigo I sketched on the same page, lmao…
Me da mucha curiosidad cómo Ren conocía a sus virtualitos, JAJAJAJA Tipo, como cuando Strade lo secuestró, porque Ren tenía una cita con algún virtual, chicos, pasen headcanons de eso, de cómo Ren conocía a virtuales, JAJAJAJAJAJA Tengo un montón de curiosidad, WTF
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